Bad Mum #2: The Baby Shower

It likely started earlier, but it wasn’t until we were there, in the midst of it; dragging ribbons in shades of pink with tiny balloons tied to them, clipping miniature clothes pegs to a thin rope, and organising strange games revolving around the theme of pregnancy, that it hit me.

What the f**k am I doing here? I asked myself, using my quiet voice, one I mostly use to reprimand or criticise myself when I am sure I could have done, chosen or acted differently; better. Which is most of the time. But it´s P´s day, and she is one of the few good friends I have here in Australia, was the only thing I mustered to answer as I looked around to find her smile in hopes that that would justify my discomfort. Making space yet again for all the “shoulds” that have been instilled in me when it comes to social interactions.

How can you not enjoy it? asked my colleagues at work. You should. 

C’mon it’s a party, said her partner. You should like partying. 

Are you really going to bed at seven? asked my roommate. You should stay up later. 

My housemate is completely unaware that I do not go to bed at seven, but just retreat, hide away from the world, and lock myself in my room to wrap up the day. To be by myself. Regulating, letting go of… relaxing.

Smile. 

Look pretty. 

Say hello to everyone. 

Say goodbye when leaving. 

You should look more friendly, with that face no-one is going to talk to you. 

And above all, you should not let the quiet voice speak out loud. This last one I’ve told myself over and over again in fear that most people won’t like what this voice has to say.

I should be here, I say to myself. She is one of my closest friends here and she is always there for me. I should be here. I should be supportive. Come on! It’s a baby shower on a Sunday afternoon and you have nothing else to do. Also, her son is your son’s best friend and what would you be doing anyway trying to entertain him at home?

So I stay, and not only that, I partake in playing a ridiculous belly bingo game which I lose. I spend the afternoon walking slowly amidst the guests to seem busy and engaged; so that they don’t notice I am not speaking with anyone. I even perch myself close enough to some small circles and chip in an attempt to find a bit of comfort.

And when my son asks me to leave, instead of listening to him and his own discomfort which is in some way mirroring mine, I become that voice I fear, the one that has dragged me through the dirt for so many years: It’s too early, we can’t leave, we should stay. And so we do.

By now I ought to know better, but sadly I still struggle to listen to myself and my body. And maybe part of this has to do with not knowing how. So when that subtle feeling started brewing in the depths of my guts as a shallow discomfort, a tummy ache of sorts giving me the perfect prerogative to call it quits, instead of pushing through and convincing my child to stay I should have picked him up and walked out; maybe even showing him that it is ok to have different needs.

Instead, I went to the bathroom for the fifth time in an attempt to get away from the noise, but even before setting foot inside, I heard my child’s cries. I ran back to see him lying on the floor. He sounded hurt, emotionally rather than physically. We are so similar;  strong on the outside and oh, so mushy on the inside.

He explained between sobs that an eight-year-old had pushed him. I cannot help but turn around to scold someone else’s child, with the angst of someone who has felt trapped for hours. Misdirecting my anger for not having left, for all this nonsensical smiling I had been doing.

Only then, frozen in the middle of the little patio, with many pairs of eyes set on me, could I rephrase my initial question as an honest statement. What the f**k are we doing here? 

Time to go, I said out loud as I held my son in my arms. And without reverence to any ‘shoulds’ I picked him up and walked straight to the car. Once in, settled and ready to go, I start crying.

What happened mama?, he asked, confused.

I’m just tired, I lie, trying to protect him from what I consider is part of my weirdness. From imposing any sort of ‘antisocial’ behaviour on him.

There were too many people, he answered as if sensing my angst.

There were, I said. I held back the tears and started the car.

It’s ok mama, he said.

Thank you, I responded, but deep down I felt bad for leaving early. I feel bad I can’t enjoy these social reunions as everyone else does; as I’ve been told I should.

I am sorry I didn’t listen when you asked to leave, I add.

It’s ok mama, he repeated in all his amazing empathy. Let’s go home, you’ll feel better soon. 

Thank you, baby, I say under my breath. 

You know, he said, you don’t have to stay when you don’t want to. 

Now my whole body smiled as if it had been heard, and silently I could feel how the caring roles inverted for a little while.